The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I'm feeling
Like an empty shell
But the core
Of nothingness
Is made out of
Pure sorrow

Empty
Is that the word?
It doesn't describe me
Hell, nothing does...
So I'll just
Keep doing
What I know best;

It's pretending
That I'm normal, even though
I am well aware that I'm not
And I was never near being normal
And I cannot be described by normal words

Empty...
Nostalgic. Melancholic. Sad. Depressed. Abyss. Apathy. Darkness.
Pretending to be
All that I'm not.
But, I don't know, what am I?

Empty...
Empty words can describe me.
But I cannot choose them myself;
If I could, what would I choose?
Maybe...
Dead?

I'm tired.
Exhausted.
Empty, inside.
Dead, inside.
Unable to be
The real me.

And it's wearing me down.
Every time I disappoint you.
Every time I'm empty.
Every time I'm not what I should be.
When I'm not enough.
And when I'm too much.

Empty words, empty head, empty promises, empty purpose, empty meaning, empty feelings.
Is that what you bring me down to?
Is that how you see me?
Empty, of humanity?

The words are echoing in my ears.
Empty.
That's the room I sit in.
That's the life I lead.
Maybe that's me.
Perhaps it is, when you don't see what I see.

Empty.
Happy, joyful, worryless.
Perfect, pretty, shallow.
Skillful, amazing, badass.
Crazy, mad, fun, reckless.
...but empty.

It's a mark you've made.
Are you happy?
That I'm empty?
That I'm turning into you?
Are you empty?
But am I?

A lot of people see me differently,
Like I just wrote.
Each line for one me.
Wait, I write?
Why didn't you write it down?
Because I had to write, EMPTY, twice?

So are you looking
At this empty moon tonight?
Are you staring at the starless sky?
Are you partying in your empty house?
Are you crying, in your room, or in  your empty soul?

Have you been feeling empty recently?
Is it contagious?
Do you feel sorry?
Did you mean everything you told me?
Did this world mean to hurt me?

Am I empty?
Is the world empty?
What's my empty purpose?
Is it to be empty?
Is it to be me,
Or is it to be you?

Over the icy hills you hear a breath;
As this field sinks in the frigid blue
It spreads in the soul a fear of death.
The hope to return still lives in you.

How can you be so blind not to see?      
That even your worst foe could be      
                  
Your best friend behind these lines.       
A scream drowns in the darkness,
Now he is rotting as the moon shines.
There are no heroes in this grey mess.
Is it worth to waste human meat?
What is victory but a lucky defeat?

pain
changes us
and pain
must exist
or you'll feel
like you've never
lived

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art